Part 27 (1/2)

Such were the eagles that gathered round the carca.s.s of George Hawker; and at last these eagles began to bring the hen-birds with them, who frightened our poor little dove with the amplitude and splendour of their feathers, and their harsh, strange notes. George knew the character of those women well enough, but already he cared little enough about his wife, even before they had been a month married, going on the principle that the sooner she learned to take care of herself, the better for her; and after they had been married little more than a month, Mary thought she began to see a change in her husband's behaviour to her.

He grew sullen and morose, even to her. Every day almost he would come to her with a scowl upon his face; and when she asked if he was angry with her, would say, ”No, that he wasn't angry with her; but that things were going wrong--altogether wrong; and if they didn't mend, he couldn't see his way out of it at all.”

But one night he came home cheerful and hilarious, though rather the worse for liquor. He showed her a roll of notes which he had won at roulette--over a hundred pounds--and added, ”That shall be the game for me in future, Polly; all square and above-board there.”

”My dear George, I wish you'd give up gambling.”

”So I will, some of these fine days, my dear. I only do it to pa.s.s the time. It's cursed dull having nothing to do.”

”To-morrow is the great day at the races, George. I wish you would take me; I never saw a horserace.”

”Ay, to be sure,” said he; ”we'll go, and, what's more, we'll go alone.

I won't have you seen in public with those dowdy drabs.”

So they went alone. Such a glorious day as it was--the last happy day she spent for very long! How delightful it was, all this rush and crush, and shouting and hubbub around, while you were seated in a phaeton, secure above the turmoil! What delight to see all the beautiful women in the carriages, and, grandest sight of all, which struck awe and admiration into Mary's heart, was the great Prince himself, that n.o.ble gentleman, in a gutter-sided hat, and a wig so fearfully natural that Mary secretly longed to pull his hair.

But princes and d.u.c.h.esses were alike forgotten when the course was cleared for the great event of the day, and, one by one, the sleek beauties came floating along, above the crowd, towards the starting-post. Then George, leaving Mary in the phaeton to the care of their landlady, pushed his way among the crowd, and, by dint of hard squeezing, got against the rail. He had never seen such horses as these; he had never known what first-cla.s.s horse-racing was. Here was a new pa.s.sion for him, which, like all his others, should only by its perversion end in his ruin.

He had got some money on one of the horses, though he, of course, had never seen it. There was a cheer all along the line, and a dark bay fled past towards the starting-post, seeming rather to belong to the air than the ground. ”By George,” he said, aloud, as the blood mounted to his face, and tingled in his ears, ”I never saw such a sight as that before.”

He was ashamed of having spoken aloud in his excitement, but a groom who stood by said, for his consolation,--

”I don't suppose you ever did, sir, nor no man else. That's young Velocipede, and that's Chiffney a-ridin' him. You'll see that horse walk over for everything next year.”

But now the horses came down, five of them abreast; at a walk, amid a dead silence from the crowd, three of them, steady old stagers, but two jumping and pulling. ”Back, Velocipede; back, Lara!” says the starter; down goes the flag, they dart away, and then there is a low hum of conversation, until a murmur is heard down the course, which swells into a roar as you notice it. The horses are coming. One of the royal huntsmen gallops by, and then, as the noise comes up towards you, you can hear the maddening rush of the horses' feet upon the turf, and, at the same time, a bay and a chestnut rush past in the last fierce struggle, and no man knows yet who has won.

Then the crowd poured once more over the turf, and surged and cheered round the winning horses. Soon it came out that Velocipede had won, and George, turning round delighted, stood face to face with a gipsy woman.

She had her hood low on her head, so that he could not see her face, but she said, in a low voice, ”Let me tell your fortune.”

”It is told already, mother,” said George. ”Velocipede has won; you won't tell me any better news than that this day, I know.”

”No, George Hawker, I shan't,” replied the gipsy, and, raising her hood for an instant, she discovered to his utter amazement the familiar countenance of Madge.

”Will you let me tell your fortune now, my boy?” she said.

”What, Madge, old girl! By Jove, you shall. Well, who'd a' thought of seeing you here?”

”I've been following you, and looking for you ever so long,” she said.

”They at the Nag's Head didn't know where you were gone, and if I hadn't been a gipsy, and o' good family, I'd never have found you.”

”You're a good old woman,” he said. ”I suppose you've some news for me?”

”I have,” she answered; ”come away after me.”

He followed her into a booth, and they sat down. She began the conversation.

”Are you married?” she asked.

”Ay; a month since.”